Crash!
The courageous Indian leader—the Custer of the Cheyennes—staggered and reeled. He toppled over. He went down amidst the thunder of unshod hoofs, and prostrate upon the sand he lay, while his intrepid warriors leaped their foaming horses across his bleeding form. But on, on, they came, while the cool-headed plainsmen took careful and deliberate aim.
Crash!
The Indians were now galloping upon the firm soil of the island. They were within twenty yards of their enemies. They began to stagger. They hesitated. They faltered.
Crash!
The seventh volley of lead swept through their broken ranks, and, throwing themselves upon the off side of their horses, with horrible cries of disappointed rage, the great wave of painted warriors broke, divided, and scattered in every direction. With a ringing cheer, the scouts jumped to their feet, and, seizing their revolvers, poured volley after volley into the retreating and demoralized ranks of the running foe. The great charge of Roman Nose was over; the impetuous warrior lay dead upon the field of battle; and his wild, naked followers, crazed with anger and disappointment, collected in groups, just out of rifle range, and shook their fists vindictively at Forsyth's devoted band; who, again sinking to their rifle pits, made haste to load for the attack which they knew would shortly come. The charge of the five hundred had been as futile as the wild gallop of the six hundred British hussars at Balaklava.
This was not all of the battle, but it was all of Roman Nose. Twice again the Indians attempted to charge the island, but they were easily driven away. Two scouts, meanwhile, had crawled through their lines from Forsyth's command, had successfully escaped the watchful eyes of the Indians, and carried news of the desperate situation to the United States troops at Fort Wallace, Kansas, some hundred miles away. Colonel Carpenter, with seventy men of the Tenth Cavalry, seventeen scouts, and an ambulance, immediately marched to the rescue of the gallant Rough Riders. On the morning of the ninth day of the siege of the island, one of the weary men on watch suddenly sprang to his feet, shouting:
"There are moving men on the hills." Everyone who was strong enough, and not sufficiently starved out from eating mule and horse meat, jumped up in an instant.
"By Heavens! There's an ambulance!" cried Grover, the oldest scout. The Rough Riders of '68 were rescued at last.